Yellow Eyes and Bad Times: A Fear Justified
by SplatDragon
Summary: Arthur hates cougars. Or pumas. Or mountain lions, whatever you care to call them, he hates them. And, well, it's a rational hate. They're large, and they're strong, and they're dangerous. He's seen more than his fair share of men be killed by them, watched them kill more animals than he'd ever cared to.


Everyone has animals they don't like.

A lot of people don't like dogs. Maybe they were chased by one as a kid, or bitten, or they just find them scary. John hates wolves for obvious reasons: he was mauled by them, held captive by them, and still bears scars from them. Hosea has an irrational dislike for foxes. Dutch hates birds because he fears being crapped on.

Arthur?

Arthur hates cougars. Or pumas. Or mountain lions, whatever you care to call them, he hates them.

And, well, it's a rational hate. They're large, and they're strong, and they're dangerous. He's seen more than his fair share of men be killed by them, watched them kill more animals than he'd ever cared to.

He hates them to the point of avoiding Strawberry. Never goes near the Owanjila dam, despite the good hunting, as cougars are known to frequent the area, much to Dutch and Pearson's grief and frustration.

Hosea and Dutch, though, knew exactly how to get him to do what they wanted. They knew that he'd never say no to going hunting with them and, so, when they invited him to go out hunting with them, he of course said 'yes'. He had tried to ask where they were going, but they'd just said 'here and there', and he knew that meant they wouldn't tell him, that it was a surprise, so he didn't bother to question them any more.

He shouldn't have been surprised, he supposed, when he realized they were heading towards Strawberry. Hosea and Dutch had only laughed at his complains, insisting that he couldn't change his mind and that he had already said yes, and would he really just abandon his two dear old pa's to go hunting in cougar territory?

Their amusement had been obvious.

Arthur was, understandably, tense as they rode out of Strawberry and towards Blackbone Forest. He guided his gelding with one hand, the other resting on the handle of his gun, ready to draw it at a moments notice.

"Careful, Dutch! Don't make any sudden moves," Hosea chuckled, looking back at him over his shoulder.

Dutch did the same, grinning as he took in Arthur's battle ready position. "Same to you, Hosea. You're an old man, now. Just imagine dying after all of this because you twitched wrong."

The pair chuckled, and Arthur groaned, slowing his horse to a walk and allowing them to continue trotting ahead, not wanting to listen to their 'good-natured' ribbing. It was hard to listen for cougars (and wolves, there were wolves and black bears around as well) over the sound of their voices.

Then again, it was hard to listen for cougars, period. They were impossibly quiet, and tended to attack from behind. Your only warning came if they roared as they attacked, and even that wasn't a sure thing: often, you only knew they were there when their teeth sank into your skull.

So he was, naturally, on edge. Listening for padded footsteps, low growls. Listening for, too, the absence of sounds, animals going quiet for fear of drawing a predator's attention. Looking in the trees, in the bushes, for a flash of tawny fur, light reflecting off of yellow eyes.

But he could never have seen the attack, coming from behind, out of his line of sight. A streak of brown-gold launching from the trees, his horse rearing in terror, and he twisted, drawing his gun, but the puma was already on him. It struck him with the force of a moving train, nearly two-hundred pounds of pure muscle slamming into him as hard as it could, throwing him clear of the saddle and stomach down on the ground. His horse whirled, uncaring that his rider was in danger, and fled for the relative safety of Strawberry.

Arthur tried to scream, panicked and afraid, "Dutch! Hosea!" even as he scrabbled with one hand for his gun, the other reaching back to grab at the puma, trying to pull it away from him, its breath burning his ear as it moved, trying to adjust itself to try and bite again, but his face had been shoved into the dirt, mouth full of grass and soil, and sound died against the ground. He twisted, trying to buck the puma, but its claws dug into his skin, heavy weight pinning him, and it didn't even bother to growl as it lunged, sinking its fangs into the back of his skull—he screamed, the sound dying in the dirt, tried to spit it out but his face was forced back into the ground—letting go to lick with its sandpaper tongue against the wound, flattening his bloodied hair, tearing at his skin, before lunging to bite again.

Arthur, stunned, lay still, and so its bite struck exactly where it aimed. Strong jaws drove impossibly sharp teeth through flesh and tendons, cartilage, veins, arteries and, finally, his spine. The man went limp, dead, and the puma gave a few, final shakes to make sure its prey wouldn't fight back before letting go, shifting to grab him by the back of his shirt—it was just like fur to it, after all, and he would grab an elk or a deer by the scruff as well—before dragging him into the bushes, straining somewhat to haul the dead weight of a man that weighed more than he did.

Hosea and Dutch trotted on, none the wiser.


End file.
